Harry Potter and the Hellblazer's Tale
by Sarcastic Avenger
Summary: As the darkness falls over Hogwarts, and Voldemort's reign begins, one foulmouthed Liverpudlian steps into the breach to grapple with evil.


_**Harry Potter and the Hellblazer's Tale**_

**Summary:** As the darkness falls over Hogwarts, and Voldemort's reign begins, one foulmouthed Liverpudlian steps into the breach to grapple with evil.

**Prologue:** **Hogwarts Calling**

**Author's Notes:** My first serious attempt at a crossover. _Harry Potter_ meets _Hellblazer_; honestly, it's been an idea that's brewing for a while, and while the original idea was more lighthearted than what has turned out to be the end result, I think you'll enjoy it. Rated T, mostly for language and the inevitable occult summonings that will occur whenever John Constantine is inolved with something.

* * *

The street was shrouded in shadows, pierced only by the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp. Like a dying flame, the old lamps of this part of London were in dire need of being stoked to life. A blond haired man, wearing a dull tan trenchcoat, was standing in the pale light of the street lamp, smoking a cigarette. As he took a long drag from his cigarette, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

Another figure moved through the darkness, a shifting shadow among shadows. The man chuckled softly upon seeing the middle-aged woman entering the light of the streetlamp. He casually flicked the butt of his cigarette to the the concreate before grinding beneath the sole of his black leather wingtips. "Bloody good to see you as always, Minerva," he snarked.

"Must you always pick such foreboding meeting places, Mister Constantine?" she shot back. This was beginning to feel like a waste of her time.

Constantine turned to face her, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. "Well luv," he chuckled, "it was you who wanted to talk to me, so we meet where I say."

"But must you be so unprofessional about it?"

"Aye, I s'pose it's in my nature. So, what was it that you wanted to talk 'bout, Minerva? No doubt you want me to flatter that boarding school of yours with my presence."

"Well, Mister Constantine, if you want to get right down to business, than we will." Minerva was already annoyed with him, and the way she pursed her lips when she spoke. She crossed her arms in disgust, and spoke, very rigidly at him, "Yes, as a matter of fact, that is exactly why I wished to speak with you. Quite frankly, a man of your skill and your...perspective...is precisely what we need at Hogwarts—"

"Save it," Constanine abruptly cut her off, "You've tried this speech on me before, and it ain't gonna work on me this time any more than it did last time. The world of the occult is much broader than your insular clique of conjurers cares to admit."

Minerva's eyes narrowed at the mention of the word occult—it was like he had just accused her of being a peddler of black magic. Still, he continued, not caring how much he profaned her sacred cow. "Well, it's the truth, innit? Which is why you come to me, to teach your cloistered little magicians a bit of something your coven doesn't want to admit existing. Well, save it bird, I don't want to do it anymore now than t he last time you came calling for me."

"Hear me out, John Constantine!" she spat.

"Fine. What gives?"

"I'm afraid the situation is far more dire than anyone would like to admit," She stopped for a moment, as if to check for any eavsdroppers, "The Dark Lord, Voldemort, has returned. His forces have gathered strength, and now they're poised to take control of Wizarding Britain."

"Blimey, you weren't messin' around, were you? But I thought you were prepared for this?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Constantine. I'm afraid that we've been outwitted at this time, and our preparations have proven inadequate. Not only have his supporters infiltrated the Ministry of Magic, but they've also managed to assassinate Albus Dumbledore, witha traitor from within our ranks. You realize what this means, right?"

"So why do you want me?"

"Because, frankly, we don't have much of a choice. We're running out allies, and now our backs are against the wall. If there's anyone who knows how to fight Dark Magic, it's you. Will you help us?"

"Eh, here you go, trying to make me play the hero," he winced. Constantine didn't like his options, and he certainly didn't like fighting other people's battles. But unfortunately, his compassion didn't leave him much of a choice. Hogwarts may have been a school for an insular clique of magicians who cared little for the occult beyond their own realm, but the lives and safety of hundreds of children were now in peril. And Tom Riddle—Constantine refused to give that petty powerslave any more dignity—was the Wizarding World's equivalent of a Nazi. He'd no doubt be looking for some magical _lebensraum_ the moment he finished purging his realm of "undesirables." He wouldn't be content with the Wizarding World. His lust would bring him into other people's backyards. And besides, Nazis were something Constantine fought on principal.

"Fine, looks like I'm buggered either way. What do you need me to do?"

"We need you to come teach at Hogwarts."

"That's a joke, innit?"

"No Mr. Constantine, I'm afraid it isn't."

"Bollocks," was all he could manage. "Fine. Let's get us a drink, and discuss this at length, away from hostile ears."

The place away from hostile ears turned out to be one of the seedier dive bars in London's East End. The air was oily, and filled with cigarette smoke, and the lights were dim. But it wasn't too crowded, and at any rate, the owner of the establishment wouldn't mind Constantine putting up a ward or two.

Constantine took the opportunity to indulge in a pint of Guinness draught. Minerva McGonnagal, on the other hand, refused to drink anything stronger than Darjeeling tea. They found a corner booth, away from the bussle of the rest of the bar, and sat down to talk.

"Of course, you realize we haven't much time," Minerva said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"'Strewth..." he replied in between sips of the dry Irish stout, "You wouldn't be coming to me if you weren't desperate. How much time do we have?"

"Late July at the very latest. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named plans to make his move by then. And we need to get you on the staff before then."

"Bloody 'ell, less than a month...Arright, what am I s'posed to do when you get me in? Do ya expect me to teach those little brats anything useful? I'm not good at your kind of magic."

Minerva sighed, "Do you really think we wouldn't have thought of that? We're putting you in Divinations, which as I recall, is a subject you aren't half bad in. With any lucky, none of the new regime will recognize you."

With any luck. What a load of bollocks. "That's not very comforting."

"Just be glad we mostly keep to ourselves," she said smily, as though twisting knife.

"Arright, let's say you get me in, and some how, I'm not blown and I don't have ta fight my way out of yer school while being hunted by deranged Nazi wizards...what then? This is not the kind of battle I am used to fighting."

"I'm sure you'll figure something out."

Constantine let out a long sigh. "I'll think about it..."

* * *

Constantine walked home, alone in the balmy summer air. As he walked, he puffed on a Silk Cut cigarette, and mulled over the offer. He'd certainly had better days. Here he was, being enticed in to doing something stupid and heroic for a bunch of toffs cloistered in their own little world. Everything he hated about bloody England was worse of in that "Wizarding World." As if they held exclusive title to the franchise.

"Bollocks," he muttered to himself, "If these arrogant gits 'ad kept their own 'ouse in order, they wouldn't be needing my 'elp. Wizarding Britain's caught in a bit of a class war, and the baddies are winning. Great. Just sodding great." He flicked the butt of the cigarette into the gutter, and reached into his coat pocket to grab the pack. There was only one left in the pack.

"An' now I'm outta fags..." he said, pulling the last cigarette out. A few flicks on the Zippo, and the last cigarette he had was lit. He drew a long breath, puffing out the acrid smoke into the air, continuing to think about what he was going to do. Home was only a few more minutes away, and he had finished cigarette by the time he go there. It was getting late by now, and the landlady was probably asleep.

He quietly unlocked the front door and let himself relocking the door, and turning around to head upstairs, he noticed the landlady sitting in her chair just off the entry way. She was reading the _Evening Standard_, occaisionally glancing up over the paper to look at Constantine.

"How has our evening been, luv?" he asked, taking his coat off and slinging it over one arm.

"It's been fine," she said calmly and sweetly, as though she were his grandmother. "Though, it will be better when you pay this month's rent, dearie."

Christ, the bloody rent wasn't due 'til tomorrow. "Don't you worry Miss," he said, concealing his annoyance, "I'll have the rent for you tomorrow."

He walked upstairs, muttering "Bloody old hag," under his breath. He hung his coat up on the coat rack, and fixed himself a stiff drink from the bottle of gin in the kitchen. He sat down in his overstuffed chair, and sipped at the gin, mulling his options. After a few minutes, he dozed off, not even realizing it.

He awoke with a start. He wasn't alone in the room. In the chair across from him, a man was sitting. But as his vision cleared, he realized it wasn't a man. No, not technically. More of a personification. His skin was pale as moonlight, and his hair and clothes were white, glowing palely. His black eyes were different this time. Last time they were cold; now they were warm, and the expression on his face likewise. The serverity he remembered from his last visit with Morpheus was gone.

"Morpheus, it's been a while," Constantine said, clearing his eyes.

"_No, not Morpheus,_" the man replied, "_At least not anymore. I am still Dream, and I still remember of you, but the version you once met of me is no more._"

"Well, Christ, I didn't realize. Still, good to see you. How can I help you...whatever you go by now?"

"_Daniel. You can just call me Daniel. It was my name before I was Dream, and I'm rather fond of it. And actually, I've come here to help you, Constantine._"

"Darrafact? Well, I won't look a gift horse in the mouth if comes from you." And it wasn't like he had a choice anyway. When one of the Endless showed up, it was usually a good idea to just cooperate.

"_Yes, it is so. I cannot offer you much, but I will aid you in dealing with the thread posed by Tom Riddle and his acolytes._" Daniel smiled, "_Since we're in the Dreaming, perhaps I could offer you some refreshment?_"

"Well, if you're offering, I wouldn't mind a fag—I know, it's a terrible 'abit, but I can't be arsed to quit right now. The bloody stress'd kill me before the fags did."

Daniel conjured a pack of Silk Cut for Constantine. He leaned over to give him a light, saying "_Of course, I'd be lying if I said I was doing this just out of the goodness of my heart. Riddle will soon have in his control wraiths that, if he unleashes them as part of his terror against his opponents, will have terrible consequences to the Dreaming._"

"I'll keep my eyes open for 'em. I'm sure Minnie'll be able to tell me what exactly to look out for."

"_Be careful, John. I've given you a boon to help keep them from getting suspicious about you, but I can't stop them from going after you if you get caught red handed._"

"Thanks, Daniel. For the cigarettes, for curing the nightmares, for everything, really. I don't know if I'll be making it back from this one alive."

**

* * *

AN:** Just a taste. Please let me know what you think.


End file.
